Chapter 18
Waverly
Traeger Hall
“Reverend Billings!” She shouldn’t have allowed herself to sound so surprised when Aveline showed the man into the parlor, where she sat vacantly staring at Uncle Leopold’s dead face.
The reverend, all five feet of him, gave her a quizzical look as he turned his black hat in his hands. His white clerical collar looked as if it might choke him. He was rotund and ruddy and known for enjoying his pastries. “Miss Pembrooke, thank you for receiving me.”
“Of course.” She tempered her voice.
“I know I called shortly after your uncle’s and aunt’s passing away, but I felt it prudent to return and see to your spiritual welfare.
” He cast a glance at Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia and then took a few seconds to approach them with a grave expression.
After a moment of silence and reverent studying of their features, which were sinking into themselves, he sniffed.
Yes. It was getting . . . what word had Titus predicted it would become? Ripe? That was it. Waverly reached out and gave one of the bouquets of flowers a shake, hoping their perfume might release more prolifically into the room.
“And are you well?” Reverend Billings still eyed Aunt Cornelia specifically as he asked the question.
Waverly followed his gaze. What was she supposed to say?
Oh, Reverend Billings, my uncle has left me destitute.
We’ve no idea who murdered him and my aunt.
I may also be in danger for my very life.
And it’s of little comfort that the only one who seems to care is the undertaker.
I believe he’s waiting for his next customer because if I am murdered, that is what I will be!
“I’m faring well,” she lied because she was convinced the reverend didn’t want an honest reply.
“Good.” He tipped his head, still perusing Aunt Cornelia’s features. Waverly frowned, thinking it a bit odd that her aunt was the center of the man’s attention. He cleared his throat as if realizing he was acting peculiar. “Your aunt was a valued member of our congregation.”
“Mmm.” Waverly offered a soothing response just in case the reverend was getting emotional. She hoped he wasn’t.
“Why, just last week she promised the funds needed to have installed in the church custom stained-glass windows.” Reverend Billings dipped his head, shaking it in dismay. “And to think, with such an expense . . . we would never be able to make up for it had I already proceeded with the order.”
“I’m so sorry.” What was she to do? She couldn’t offer the funds herself, which she knew the reverend was fishing for. But she also owed him nothing, for it sounded as though the windows were merely a wish now than a future reality.
Reverend Billings sniffed when she didn’t offer what he was hoping for. “Well, I suppose it was all for naught anyway.”
“For naught?” Waverly absently picked at a dying daisy in one of the funeral bouquets.
“Yes.” Reverend Billings shifted his attention toward Uncle Leopold, who lay with his hands crossed over his chest. He looked remarkably more porous this morning than he had yesterday.
The minister’s expression soured. “Your aunt had just sent me word that I was not to worry. Yet her husband had indicated he was not willing to donate the necessary funding for, and I quote, ‘the blistering wastefulness the church squanders on architectural beauty as human souls rot from sin.’”
For the first time, Waverly could almost agree with her uncle. Churches did seem to put an awful lot of importance on their buildings, while destitute people stood in their shadows unnoticed.
“I found it more than insulting.” Those last words were spoken directly to Uncle Leopold’s corpse.
Uncle Leopold had no response, which was probably just as well. For that would have frightened them both and then where would they be?
“Be that as it may . . .” Reverend Billings moved away from both Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia. “What may I do to offer the church’s support during this time of sorrow? Will you be needing me to facilitate the funeral services?”
The funerals. Yes. She had three more days of vigil, and then not only would her uncle and aunt take up residence in their mausoleum at the cemetery but she would have only two days remaining before she might find herself without a place to—
“Miss Pembrooke?” Reverend Billings said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Yes. I . . . of course. Your ministrations will be needed at the funeral.”
“And when will that be? Has that been determined?”
Waverly floundered. She’d not come up with a firm plan as yet.
She had been busy trying to stay alive, trying to uncover what had gotten her uncle and aunt killed to begin with, and to protect her own desperate secret.
“No, it has not. I am meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald in the morning to finalize the details.” And she was.
That wasn’t a lie. She could only imagine what Titus would say when he heard of the reverend’s visit and his taking offense regarding the funds for the stained-glass windows his congregation had hoped to get.
Were stained-glass windows enough of a motive to kill for? Waverly wasn’t sure, and she felt a pang of guilt for questioning if the reverend might have anything to do with the murders.
“Well then, if you’ve the time, we could discuss the eulogy?”
Oh, that.
Waverly cringed inwardly and then hoped it didn’t show on her face. How was she to compose a respectable last remembrance of her uncle and aunt when their memories were not pleasant ones? “I may need more time to consider the eulogy,” she said at last.
Reverend Billings’s small, blue eyes narrowed. “Miss Pembrooke, have you prepared anything?”
If the reverend meant to sound disdainful, he’d succeeded.
He continued, “Because, in any other circumstance, the funeral would be taking place either today or tomorrow. I am aware there are exceptions, however, what with your uncle’s last wishes, and so here we are. But, my dear, while our grief is a consuming thing, one must move forward.”
Grief was not the primary emotion she felt. If Waverly was as independent, strong, and courageous as she wished to be, she might have glowered at him. As it was, she attempted a sad smile and hoped she appeared appropriately sorrowful.
“Perhaps give me another day or two. I must collect myself.”
That seemed to appease Reverend Billings, and he gave a short nod. “Yes, yes. That is reasonable. Meet with Mr. Fitzgerald and make the final arrangements. Once you’re prepared, send me a message, and I shall return to discuss the funeral services.”
“Thank you.” Waverly extended an arm toward the front door in a polite gesture to indicate she believed their conversation to be over. As Reverend Billings was a busy man, she gave her permission for him to take his leave.
He accepted the hint, and they left the dead behind as they returned to the front entrance.
Waverly’s gaze skimmed the painting hanging on the wall at the bottom of the staircase.
She wanted to jump into it and run away.
Maybe there would be a little cottage or a farmhouse, and she could make it her home.
Just her and her terribly adored cat Foo, who now brushed up against her leg and trilled.
Apparently, the cat thought it was his turn for attention, and he leveled disdainful cat eyes on the reverend for the man’s interruption.
“Miss Pembrooke . . .” Reverend Billings paused at the door and looked down at the hat in his hands as if gathering some supernatural power of persuasion.
As he returned his attention to Waverly, she was almost certain she read something unfriendly in his countenance.
“Would there be opportunity after the funerals to discuss the matter of the stained-glass windows? I know your uncle was opposed, but your aunt—who is your direct relation—was quite committed to the idea.”
Waverly didn’t want to tell the man no and then be compelled to offer a reason as to why not. So she gave him the only answer she felt she could give. “Certainly.” She dipped her head, and a light flickered in the man’s eyes.
“Thank you, Miss Pembrooke.” He puffed out his already large chest. He was attempting to show his dominance, and while she wasn’t typically afraid of ministers, Reverend Billings suddenly seemed . . . hostile. “I shall look forward to that conversation and setting things to right.”
Setting things right?
As though Uncle Leopold’s refusal to fund the church’s stained-glass windows had been a wrong.
Waverly closed the door behind the reverend and leaned against it. She lifted her eyes at the sound of movement, and she met the frank and open stare of Preston.
He raised an eyebrow and tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe in the air. “Reverends are greedy men, Waverly,” he said. “Be careful of whom you trust.”
She watched Preston turn and disappear into the bowels of Traeger Hall.
Yes. Be cautious of whom she trusted.
His warning was a bit disheartening at the moment. Knowing that even she kept her own deceptions hidden, she could conclude there was no one on earth who didn’t have secrets.
With Preston slinking around Traeger Hall, together with the visits from Titus, the constable, and Reverend Billings, as well as her attempts to play the role of a grieving family member, Waverly hadn’t had a free moment to return to the scene of the crime.
The bell tower.
What had once been a refuge for her, a place in which to dwell on her innermost thoughts, was now violated by Aunt Cornelia’s bloodstains. She had been the last to be daggered to death, if Titus and the constable’s assumptions about the murder weapon were correct.